He could not believe it. The Enlightenment, the terrible Neo-Socialist Enlightenment, was no more. Dashed to a thousand million fragments upon the unyielding cliffs of the Resistance, the Enlightenment was broken. The monolithic government that had bound countless billions to poverty and misery had collapsed; the back of the Enlightenment Navy had been broken, the Guard had been annihilated, the Enlightened Cabal was dead. Years of unceasing struggle against the unspeakable evils of the Enlightenment had finally come to fruition, and the people could celebrate.
For the first time in almost two hundred years, the citizens of the worlds of humanity could wake up, could stare at their broken shackles, could turn and face the coming day with awe and wonder instead of fear and dread. From Moriah to Moonlight, Betelgeuse to Beta Aquilae, mankind celebrated and reveled in his new-found freedom
Peterson put down the paper-bound novel and stood up, surveying his surroundings. The past couple of days had been a blur- medics and military officials peering anxiously over his recuperation unit, the shouted instructions of surgeons, and through it all, the burning blue light that illuminated the inside of his unit. The light was shut off now; through the line of framed windows the setting sun shone, illuminating his environs with a golden sheen. It was a beautiful day, the ever-present fog had actually lifted, and the sight of the star Antioch through his window descending below the horizon lent a sense of beauty that had been absent for the past three years to his long-suffering existence.
He racked his brain. Something about a carrier the Borothis? Through the serene life he now lived impugned a dark cloud of indistinct experiences; they were as visceral as a nightmare, but he was still dimly conscious of them. As the sun moved across its diurnal path, the shadows cast upon the floors and walls grew longer and more pronounced.
Through the row of windows a Deacon destroyer glided over the ocean, briefly eclipsing the sunset. Peterson hastily shook the thoughts out of his head and strode across the room, sitting back upon the plain metal seat.
_The descent
The Medal of Valor I had been awarded the smoke filling the halls of my carrier? The Borothis?_
Peterson shook his head again, squinting his eyes and trying to remember. The memories began to well up again.
Plasma courses over the surface of the bridge, rushing past at speeds I cannot even hope to comprehend. I stare at the sensors consoles, eyes locked upon the holo-projections, oblivious of the error messages screaming across the static-filled screens. Damn it engines off-line. Reactor going critical. Cooling systems gone. Ultracapacitor overcharged, and I havent even visited the cafeteria for lunch. Temperature increasing rapidly-my brow is wet with sweat. Taking off my commodores uniform; does it even matter at this stage?
It was coming back to him. The haze of amnesia began to lift, unveiling the horrific thoughts. The account of how the first, and probably the last, naval vessel he would ever command had been lost in action.
Back is afire- Im barely conscious. Lights flashing, alarms wailing. Some ensign drags me through the halls his feet are bare and his uniform is tattered. The corridor is a haze of flame and flashing light. He stops why? Im burning!- and looks at me with an expression of concern upon his face. His hair is sandy, his eyes hazel. I dont think Ive ever seen him before, but then again, with a standard crew-complement of two thousand fifty three, Im not surprised.
Peterson clutched his temples, as a searing pain tore through his head. Knocking over the collapsible chair as he lurched over towards the recuperation unit, he desperately snatched at the nerve-damper probe that dangled from the equipment rack. Plunging it deep into his arm, he relaxed as the pain disappeared and the world became coherent once again. He had been haunted with these migraines ever since waking up, staring at the concerned personnel watching over him- even now, he harbored a sneaking suspicion that the officers hoping for his recovery were more interested in his debriefing than his personal welfare.
The metal door slid open with a soft whoosh. A steely-eyed Alliance marine, with the crux et aquila emblem stenciled upon his plasma rifle, stepped smartly into the room. With a voice inflected with concern, he spoke.
Peterson, sir. Is there a problem?
The former commodore realized that he still clutched his head. Bringing his arm down, he replied. Im fine. For some reason, I cant bring myself to believe that you came to visit just to check upon my well-being. Is there anything you want from me?
As a matter of fact, Ive been ordered to summon you to a debriefing. If you feel strong enough, please come with me.
It would be useless faking his weakness; he had done that the past five times the marine had paid him a visit, and the young soldier was no fool. Calling up reserves of strength he had left untouched for a long time, Peterson steeled himself and yanked the probe out of his arm.
Lead me to the debriefing. Peterson knew what to expect. The giant Alliance insignia mounted upon the briefing room walls, the officers gravely leading him through an oath of honesty, the battle prior to the debriefing played out again on a miniature scale with colored polygons floating above the systems console.
Sir, I believe that this is a special instance. The Federation overlords have personally requested an audience with you.
At this, Peterson started. The Federation oversaw the Alliance provinces military affairs only at the most general of levels. It was true that they still held the black-ops and esoteric research designations to themselves, but an Federation admiral requesting an audience with a mere Alliance commodore was almost unheard of.
Okay, we can leave now. The commodore and marine stepped out of the small hospital room.
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Antioch Citadel was perhaps the most monolithic, most impressive, and most controversial construct in Alliance space. A towering, terraced facility built into the sloped side of a sea-side mountain, the Citadel hosted long boulevards running the length of the structure parallel to the sea at fifty-meter intervals, as well as two intersecting concourses running up the height of the structure and meeting at the very pinnacle. Peterson and the marine now strode upon one of those boulevards. To their left was the ocean, to their right the steel gray structure rose up for at least another kilometer.
Smoke poured from columns and vents, billowing up into the foggy skies. Warning stripes and metal tubing containing electro-optical conduits snaked up auxiliary walls, and the ever-present strains of military music filled the air.
Peterson found himself considering an article he had read some time ago concerning this facility. It appeared that the early Alliance government, inspired by tales of monolithic cities and massive military bases told by authors and artists from Earth, had erected this structure to serve as a military base. After some arcane event involving the liberation of Sol and some alliance naval captain, the Alliance military had been disbanded.
It was when simmering racial tensions between the very diverse citizens who manned the centralized Old Federation Navy had broken out into mutiny and insubordination, that the Federation Parliament had finally decided to hand off the task of defending humanity to its constituent provinces, that the Citadel was reactivated. Intense debate filled the halls of the capital world Sanctuary; some Christian Alliance politicians had welcomed the move, some had denounced what they saw as the federal government shirking their responsibilities, and a few brave souls had actually advanced the proposition of secession from the Federation. But of course, that was unthinkable, and the interminably-obedient Alliance had shouldered the burden. After all, it was the call of the Alliance to be servants of man, and not masters of empires, and the Federation Parliament reasoned that the peaceful nature of the Alliance people would prove a natural deterrent to the empire-building that had plagued humanity so many times in the past nine hundred years.
The sunset is beautiful I wonder how many are still out there in the void, dying because of some far-away border dispute that unfortunately erupted into full-scale war. If only if there was peace! But we have not known true peace for a very long while.
Into another side-hall they marched, through a corridor lit by countless blue glowing strips recessed into the sides. Through an industrial elevator, up into the Federation headquarters located near the top levels of the Antioch terrace, and into the towering offices through the five-meter-high plated-glass windows one could see the sun finally disappearing behind the horizon. In neat rows holo-net terminals sat upon desks.
Come along, Peterson. The marine brushed a finger upon a blank sensors-pad located near the door; it glowed light blue for a brief moment, and then the door slid open. In response to the marines hand motion, Peterson slowly walked into the briefing room. This one resembled none other that Peterson had seen before. In front of a large desk sat the interrogator, a serious-looking man with bushy black hair and a Federation uniform. Behind him, upon a wall, was mounted a large display screen.
Sit down, please. The interrogator motioned to Peterson to take a seat in front of his large desk. We have much to discuss. Behind Peterson, the metal door slid shut again.
For a minute, there was silence. Peterson averted his eyes from the interrogator, who simply folded his hands and waited patiently.
Peterson finally shattered the silence, rending it into countless fragments. The war His voice trailed off, and he exhaled slowly, as the interrogator nodded and finished the sentence, confirming what Peterson had suspected, but not dared to believe
is over.
He slowly nodded again. Shortly after the Borothis annihilated itself, the Iborrorani Senate sued for peace. The treaty itself was signed upon the Alliance planet of Davitain, and moderated by the Galactic Red Cross. Even now, we are recalling our forces.
Millions of Alliance personnel stationed upon carriers, sequestered within the holds of troop transports making a silent journey through countless parsecs, soon to return to Federation territory. For them, there will be celebration, honors, laud, and glory. For me, nothing at all.
A wave of relief flowed through Petersons veins, followed by a sudden surge of regret. Yes, it was wonderful that the war had finally been adjourned, but now that military conflict was over he would be subject to trials for war-crimes. After all the wars, ashen-faced captains standing before the Federation emblem, confessing to depredations and horrifying deeds they conducted or involved themselves in.
You wanted to talk to me about my pending war crimes tribunal. Is that correct, sir?
The interrogator sighed and unfolded his hands. Yes and no.
What terrible twist of fate could God have planned for me now?
Ordinarily, we would try you for genocide, for disobeying military protocol, for expressly disregarding the commands of your superiors
It was true. Never engage the enemy at a distance not at least two hundred thousand kilometers away from an inhabited planet. We had been warned of the dire consequences of a botched naval operation, of capital ships falling through the air, of the possibility of millions dead and nations shattered. I didnt care. I was aloof and ignorant. It was my fault that the Borothis was able to tumble through the atmosphere and ignite an entire planet. It was my fault that everyone aboard that vessel, barring me and that ensign, was forced to undergo such pain and suffering before finally being wiped off the face of the universe.
You would be found guilty of violating international conventions and the military code of conduct. You would be sentenced to a life incarcerated upon some prison world. But
Especial conduct? The only thing special about my conduct was the number of people who died because I wanted to look courageous. Extenuating circumstances? I shouldnt even be here today, let alone contemplating justification to my actions. What could the Federation have in store for me? Nine hundred years of human space travel and I just set a new precedent.
you may have heard about rumors of sensor records showing alien ships attacking your engines shortly before you lost control and re-entered the atmosphere. We believe that these reports must be investigated a new hostile alien race we cannot tolerate. You were the only captain available on such short notice not due leave, therefore you will be the one dispatched upon this expedition. Go out into the Uncharted Areas with the ship we will provide for you and make yourself scarce from human space. Perhaps you will be able to atone for your deeds during your extended tour of duty.
Peterson knew perfectly what the interrogator meant by atone. If the Federation would not execute him outright, they would force him to serve their purposes before hoping that he would be at last dispatched.
You may be dismissed.
----------
And it came to pass that Peterson was given a new vessel. He was dispatched far away from the auspices of civilization; cast out to find his lonely way among the stars, searching for the antagonists who had destroyed his vessels engines and perhaps for answers. Answers to the questions that coursed through his mind...perhaps in the insanity of his own life he would be able to extract some semblance of order or peace or structure.
It was a cold, windy, stormy night upon Hycanthes, a world far-removed from Antioch Citadel, near the opposite end of human space. Harsh gales drove sheets of rain down onto the gangway, and rivulets of water rushed down the metal surface. Within the clouds, bolts of thunder leapt, illuminating the yard facility in blinding white light for mere instants. Peterson struggled to climb the gangway.
He finally staggered into the primary airlock. It was a beautiful vessel, this Seraphim Advanced carrier, polished and gleaming from engine nacelles to the tip of the bow. He had affectionately christened it the Borothis II.
The kilometers-long carrier was devoid of life. Peterson warily stepped through the sleek corridors, making his way up to the bridge. Apart from the dull humming of the reactors that permeated the entirety of the vessel, there was neither speech nor noise. Up through command, tactical, and finally up the lift to the bridge
The twin doors parted. Sitting down in the co-captains chair was the ensign; the same ensign that had saved him. His face was in his arms, resting against the command console, and when he lifted his head, stood up, and saluted Peterson, his cheeks were moist with tears.
I was the only one willing to return to your service. There is no man or woman in the Federation who does not revile you for what you did. Intentionally or unintentionally, to them it does not matter. But as for me, I will serve you faithfully until the end. Like you, I have nowhere else to turn, and like you I have everything to gain and nothing to lose.
The two shook hands, captain and boy.
There is no crew besides the two of us. This particular carrier is equipped with advanced artificial intelligence from the Iborrorani Republic and ultra-precision machinery from the guild-workshops of the Setalriitanius Empire.
The ensign gently depressed a button, and a partition disappeared, revealing rows of holding cells. Within each cell, a person slept peacefully, floating serenely amidst bio-fluid. Cloned marines. Their powered combat suits are stored in the preparation room three levels beneath us. Of course, every new Seraphim has been equipped with at least a token guard, but these are trained for both planetary surface combat and space-borne assault. And theyve been keyed to your command.
Peterson nodded gravely and pressed the key again; the partition re-appeared. I see that the illict genetics-plants are still operational: the Alliance has never explicitly condoned human cloning for militaristic purposes- but what do I care? I am an exile, and so are you. Are you ready for departure?
I am here to serve you until I die.
I am glad to hear that. We shall be exiles together Peterson pressed a hand upon a plate and triggered the ignition sequence.
There were few who did not notice the majestic Seraphim climbing into space; the earth shook violently and the rain was parted as the sleek and powerful carrier shot into the sky. There were even fewer who would miss the vessel; they knew exactly what what the captain of the Seraphim had been accused of, convicted for, and ordered to accomplish.
Away from the planet the carrier streaked. Peterson ignored the frantic subspace transmissions from spaceport traffic control and the flight of Acolyte fighters that moved to intercept his massive warship as he set the Borothis II on a course that would take it out of the gravity well of the rapidly receding planet. Gracefully banking and entering hyperspace without slowing down at all, the Seraphim became a blinding, searing sphere of light, before the hyperspace tunnel shrunk down to a pinpoint.
They had been cast out; exiles from civilization, pariahs among their kind. Through the indescribable brightness of subspace the Borothis II silently glided.
(This message has been edited by UE_Research & Development (edited 11-27-2003).)
(This message has been edited by UE_Research & Development (edited 11-27-2003).)
(This message has been edited by UE_Research & Development (edited 11-27-2003).)
I would've liked a darker ending (Peterson being executed would have been sweet), but you did a fine job.